


This is for saying yes

by harborshore



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Enjolras told Grantaire no (and the one time he said yes).</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is for saying yes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goshemily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily/gifts).



> Happiest of birthdays to my dearest darling. I love you SO much and perhaps I shall see you in, oh, six weeks or so, and please take this silly thing as, I don't know, the stupid epic isn't done yet and I love you and I hope you like it and have a wonderful birthday okay?
> 
> The title comes from [this poem](http://www.academik.org/poems/andrea-gibson/say-yes/), which I heard a girl reading at a torchlit damp night a couple of weeks ago and cried over. It's not, perhaps, directly relevant to the story. Except that it sort of is, especially (in my head) to 3.

1.

“We can’t,” Enjolras says, shaking his head at Grantaire, who rolls his eyes. The room is silent around them, as tends to happen when they get into it. 

“You only say that because you disagree with his politics,” Grantaire says. “If it were happening to anyone, anyone else, you’d be the first to man the barricades.”

“The mayor is corrupt,” Enjolras snaps. “They’ve finally amassed enough evidence to bring him down, and you want me to protest the conviction?”

“I want you to protest the fact that he wasn’t allowed due process,” Grantaire says. “Like, like when Dems started to say sexist shit about Sarah Palin, you know? Just because he deserves to be convicted doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to be treated fairly.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the system,” Enjolras says. “I thought, what was it, ‘corruption and greed have ruined what little worth it ever had.’” He crosses his arms. “Anyway, we have more worthwhile and pressing causes at the moment.”

Grantaire grits his teeth. “Fine,” he says. “I wasn’t asking—a fucking blog post, Enjolras. That’s basically all I wanted. But fine, I’ll write it myself.”

He does. Enjolras reads it and is impressed, against his will. He’s not surprised at Grantaire’s eloquence, but he is surprised at the level of his conviction. Apparently he can argue for the worth of fairness in certain circumstances.

 

2\. 

“No,” Enjolras says absently, and blinks when he sees Grantaire’s face fall. “I can’t,” he explains. “I have an exam and a paper due and then the demonstration—I’ll see it on the weekend, I promise.”

Grantaire grins, but it’s a pale imitation of his usual smile, wild and – lovely? Enjolras isn’t sure when he started applying adjectives to Grantaire’s smiles. 

“Of course, Apollo,” he says. “I shall drink all the First Night wine all by my lonesome. Not that you would have helped in that, anyway.”

“Courfeyrac and Bahorel will help,” Enjolras says, trying to coax more of a real grin onto Grantaire’s face. “You’ll get up to more mischief without me, anyway.”

“Now that,” Grantaire says, rising and bowing, moving towards the exit, “Is the truth.”

 

3.

Enjolras does go to see Grantaire’s art show. He finds himself frozen in front of a large gold-and-red piece, abstract and yet not, and more than anything Enjolras has ever seen Grantaire do before. It’s called “Portrait of the artist on fire,” which is clearly a joke, like Grantaire got all the way through painting it and then decided he couldn’t put it on display without tempering its impact on the viewers.

It doesn’t matter, though.

_You’re astounding_ , he texts Grantaire.

_?????_ is his reply.

_Your art_ , Enjolras sends back.

_you must be joking_. Enjolras glares at his phone. 

_NO. It’s the best I’ve ever seen._

There’s no reply for at least five minutes. Then: _don’t say shit like that i don’t know how to interpret it._

_You don’t have to interpret it_ , Enjolras types. _I mean it. Every word._

Grantaire doesn’t reply at all. 

 

4\. 

Neither of them brings up the art the next time they see each other. It takes a couple of weeks, because midterms force Enjolras to cancel two meetings in a row (which he hates doing) and then they end up neck-deep in the fight against a new legislative proposal to replace sex education with abstinence-only education. Their state has one of the lowest rates of teenage pregnancy in the country, and Enjolras refuses to let it rise on his watch.

“Not that it ever would,” Courfeyrac says, and yelps when the well-aimed marker (they’re making posters) hits him in the ear. “What? It’s true! It’s not like he’d sleep with teenage girls, or, or—“ 

“But it’s highly irrelevant to the matter at hand,” Combeferre says drily. He was the one who threw the marker, as he tends to be the one to keep Courfeyrac in check when needed. Enjolras doesn’t know what he would do without him.

Well, he could probably handle Courfeyrac. But the rest of his life would be much harder.

Courfeyrac grumbles over his poster, and Enjolras smirks, looking over the room. Grantaire’s eyes meet his, full of laughter. 

“We all know this isn’t a personal fight,” he says. “Enjolras would hand out condoms to every teenager in the state if he could get away with it—“

Enjolras shakes his head reflexively, about to head off Grantaire before he gets into it, and then he blinks. That, there’s—huh. “Balloons,” he says decisively. 

“What?” Combeferre says.

“Balloons at schools,” Enjolras elaborates. “We pick the biggest high schools and we make balloons out of condoms and hand them out with—Planned Parenthood will help, I’ll call my cousin—with little packets of attached condoms and health information.”

“The kids will probably have a balloon fight,” Bahorel says. “I mean, I’m down with that, but is that the kind of protest you were looking for?”

“Loud and visible,” Enjolras says, grinning. “Why not?”

 

.1

It’s a very grey November morning when Enjolras says yes to Grantaire. It starts as a joke, their conversation does, with Grantaire telling Enjolras he’s looking particularly fine this morning, and wouldn’t he like to come back to Grantaire’s now that they’ve finished their delivery of 10 000 condom balloons to the State Senate.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, laughing under the dreary sky, and he swallows around something unexpectedly heavy in his throat. Grantaire, who paints like, like he has divine inspiration, even as he steadfastedly claims to be absolutely out of love with everything about life. Grantaire, who inspired their best direct action ever with a joke, who never backs down when he thinks Enjolras is wrong, the way almost everyone else does. Grantaire.

“Yes,” he says. 

Grantaire stops laughing, head whipping around to stare at Enjolras. “What?” he says. He sounds helpless.

“I would,” Enjolras says. “I would, R,” and it’s the first time he’s called him R. The sound is soft in his mouth.

“Don’t joke.” Grantaire’s voice is low and terrible. 

“I’m not,” Enjolras says. “I’m, I swear I’m not.”

“You really—you really want to go home with me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire is smiling now, wild and unfettered and shaky. He stretches out a hand towards Enjolras, who takes it, pulling him in.

“I might not let you go,” Grantaire says against Enjolras’ throat.

“You shouldn’t,” Enjolras says and it’s a promise and another yes. Grantaire’s arms tighten around him.

“I might love you,” he confesses in a whisper so soft Enjolras has to strain to hear it.

“I know,” he says, because he can’t get the words he wants to say out, and Grantaire laughs.

“Han Solo, huh,” he says. “I can work with that.”

In an attempt to avoid the inevitable Star Wars jokes, Enjolras kisses him quiet. He’s fairly sure it won’t help, but he doesn’t mind the trying.


End file.
